


Turquoise

by CykaSpace



Series: Justin and Ross [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Pining, Referenced self harm if you look close enough, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 11:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22315696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CykaSpace/pseuds/CykaSpace
Relationships: Ross Clark/Justin Thornton
Series: Justin and Ross [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645948
Kudos: 1





	Turquoise

The light that seeps through my blinds looks green or maybe that's because I'm getting used to waking up at this time. I sigh and turn away, the green reminding me of you. I hate it. I stare at the notepad and hardback book infront of me, reminding me of what happened last night and how badly I messed up. My phone's probably on the floor somewhere and I fight against the overwhelming urge to grasp it and find out if you replied at all. I need to know but the deep purple of fear has gripped me and lifted me from the floor and will not let me down. A dry sob shakes me despite the greyness of emotions that I lack at this moment in time. Do I feel as though I should be crying? Yes. But am I going to? No. Why? Because I can't. My mind's too busy fumbling with the information you gave me last night, words swirling in the red and black ink in my head with such a delicate force that slowly chips at the top of my spine and travels down. I shiver and clench my eyes shut. I can't cope with this. I don't want to do anything but I know I have to. I have things to do. I don't want to think about that. I want a metaphorical distraction, not a physical one. I want to think about things that may not happen, not things that will happen. A shaky sigh escapes me and I purse my lips. I don't want to feel this way, but it seems that it's the only way I've been feeling for the last four months. I've become accustomed to your orange and turquoise haze but recently it's been mixed with the grey haze of misery and emotional detachment that hangs over me like a mobile over a baby. And that's what I feel like; a baby. A newborn straight out of the womb and onto the cold, white examination table of a sterile hospital filled with people who have not a single idea of how to do their job. I'm being examined not only by myself, but by you also. My examination of myself shows things that I can't explain with words, simply with colours. The tired grey lingers in my bones and the coarse red scratches at my arms and legs and neck. There's also hints and occasional slithers of turquoise and orange which I have no doubt are related to you. I shove those down and make a vague excuse to myself that I'm not forgetting how I feel; I'm simply forgetting what I feel. I forget the small touches and the brushes of hands and shoulders; I forget the lingering stares of blue eyes meeting another set of blue eyes; I forget the long warmth of company and I forget the small smile sent to me from the front door. I don't forget the sensations. How could I? They're almost the foundations of my senses.

The deep purple of fear has loosened it's grip and I take the opportunity to grasp my phone.

You've replied.

Reds and whites and purples flash behind my eyes. What do I say now?


End file.
